


Malady

by aerlths



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alchemy, Eventual Smut, F/M, Healers, No Horcruxes, Not Canon Compliant, Professor Tom Riddle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:34:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25731421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerlths/pseuds/aerlths
Summary: professor riddle ventures in a more conventional approach to immortality when meeting the school's new apprentice matron.
Relationships: Tom Riddle/Original Character(s), Tom Riddle/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	1. Mr. Folly's Problem

**Author's Note:**

> ABOUT
> 
> (warning) malady will contain mature themes such as explicit sexual content and foul language, possible violence and depictions of blood. please do not read if you are not comfortable with any of these.
> 
> (canon divergence) an alternate timeline is created where tom riddle does not create a horcrux whilst at hogwarts (through fear the magic won't work and he'll kill himself instead) and is accepted by Headmaster Dippet as a Professor upon graduation. he's first teaching a small elective and the following year gets the DADA role - the story begins here.

_. m ._

_if someone is cruel to you_   
_because of your_ **_soft_ ** _disposition_   
_and generosity,_   
_respond to their_ **_poison_ **   
_with equal parts sweet honey,_   
_equal parts dangerous ferocity._   
_n.g_

* * *

**M A L A D Y**  
(or)  
HOW MISS FORTIER AND PROFESSOR RIDDLE REACHED ACADEMIC EXCELLENCE   
THROUGH MUTUAL  
ILLICIT EXPERIMENTATION.

**-**

**HOLLY WAS THE RIPE AGE OF SIXTEEN WHEN DEATH FELL ON HER LAP.** A prayer at the tip of her tongue, a breath caught between her lungs and the sting of bile at the back of her throat. She learned how destructive and dark and _cruel_ it was before she even learned how to kiss. Her entire life had halted (and the world kept spinning, how had it not fell off its axis?) by the ink of the nicely wrapped periwinkle envelope. And how she remembered it, the whiff of lavender with patchouli and the instinct to _retch_.

_(they said holly was protection so why wasn't she there)_

She saw bodies turn to ash and dreamed of building blood and flesh back from them.

She thought death and her mind called it _sweet_ – 'till Grindelwald was thrown to a cell and suddenly life meant chances and possibilities and oh, if only they would have her, she could turn dust to gold too.  
  
  


 **TOM RIDDLE MET HOLLY AND TASTED POWER.** He could not fathom under which circumstances someone could breathe fire and settle for blowing smoke. He saw her mend gashes and weave together bones with an innocent smile and alluring eyes that told him _nothing_. They kept secret how her heart was held together in mismatched bits with tamed anger as tape. She was the one problem he wasn't capable of solving and _dammit_ if he wouldn't crack his way through.

Riddle saw the spark and the entire explosion all at once and _fuck_ , they were the same, he too wished for nothing more than making it _glow_.

**(...)**

**CHAPTER ONE - MR. FOLLY'S PROBLEM**

**IT IS A TRUTH UNIVERSALLY ACKNOWLEDGED** that a young woman in possession of good wits and a decent bloodline has no fucking business cleaning Quidditch wounds from preteens. Or however the phrase went — Tom hadn't read the book (and Merlin forbid he as much as revealed knowing of its existence).

The point was, it was extremely unsettling to see a pure-blooded witch _intend_ on wasting away her prime years at Hogwarts' Hospital Wing. Even more so when one took in consideration the glee with which she went about the measly tasks of undoing boil jinxes and fixing overgrown teeth. It seemed, too — and he had unabashedly been taking notice of her (lack of) medical challenges — that Slytherins and Gryffindors alike knew only the same five spells, and rotatively threw them around with no means of surprise.

When November of his third year of teaching had arrived, all rain and cold and the bad taste of festive cheer it left in his mouth, he'd been almost pleased with what followed in the syllabus. The unruliness of third years had been particularly exhausting ever since the witch had arrived, and he was quite tired of watching them nearly topple over themselves whenever healing came in need. Perhaps a better grasp of the defensive stance would halt their misdemeanors and the consequently plummeting colored sand.

He should have known that the children had no brains or will to minimize their visits to Miss Fortier.

Professor Riddle had learnt of the students' incompetence long before being in a position of authority, but hadn't regarded it with quite the same horror as when attempting to knock counter-hexes into their pitiful brains. He found they could not conjure a protective shield or perform a correctly timed diversion to save their lives, much less to season in any way the attempted duels along the hallways. And to his absolute dismay, to lodge another stake in the body of a man who nearly _dreamt_ of snapping their necks in half with the smidge of wandless magic it would require, he came across a fourth-year casting _anteoculatia_ on _himself_ , for the incomprehensible pleasure of being treated by the new nurse.

Tom Riddle was a lot of things, but one he hadn't quite yet fulfilled was turning mad. In that moment, however, he felt as batshit insane as Lucas Folly and the long antlers that had spawned on his forehead.

_Fucking kids._

He resisted the urge to drag him by the collar, or much more creatively levitate him face-down and let him crash against every single wall and statue or hard surface they came about — but, of course, he could not. He settled for rejoicing in the humiliation the Gryffindor sustained from his peers; the couple of giggling girls pointing manicured fingers at his atrocious new body part was surely hitting the nail on its head.

'Professor?' The boy called, a strained and fluctuating voice to match the red dots splattered across his face. 'Would you please not tell Madam Fortier the truth?'

Riddle looked him over. A half-blood, he knew — older Flint's much less enlightened sibling — and though they were in root traitors, it would not do to spoil possible valuable connections so early in his career. He spotted a hint of a tremble within the edge of a quite pale underlip and faced forward instead, save he wouldn't be quite enough of a fool and properly recognize the sneer threatening to spill.

'Only if you behave accordingly.' He answered, a warning lacking any of the severity he wished to convey.

They proceeded in silence, through the Quad and across the clock tower, Folly's features morphing from pink to pinker with each whistle and yell. He did deserve it, of course, if not for the complete stupidity of his plan, then at the very least for his own.

Tom was left wondering just what kind of treatment this Miss Fortier provided to dumb down his students to such an extent. He had barely seen her perform much further than simple healing, and he'd long reached the conclusion that the young girls' affection for her derived from motives of female intimacy he dared not delve into.

A perverse, disgustingly vivid thought crossed his mind; sudden enlightenment crashed through with such formidable strength he nearly missed the step leading up to the Hospital Wing. Surely, definitely, _there was no absolute way_ —

But it evaporated as quickly as it'd boiled over, and he was caught in the sight of her meticulous wand movements and softly sang incantations. The matron was away, possibly tucked over in her office basking in whatever leisure she pleased, as she often did in the presence of the new substitute (Dippet was too soft a man to send her away). In her stead, the room seemed to glow of sunlight it usually lacked, and though it could've been from the curtains gathered away to paint bright the ancient walls, there was definitely a sort of halo protruding from the girl to rival it.

He almost felt like she was winning.

Miss Fortier. She presented herself with a disgusting amount of sweetness, the unconditional sickly kind; one he'd never been gifted with from the nurses who'd raised him a couple of years back. Whenever he gazed over her, however, he took it for a fact innocence wasn't all she amounted to. A kind glint in her light eyes that in its strict presence he recognized only as weak, yet an impenetrable mind beneath them the taunting proof of whatever power had resulted from her impressive academic results.

A rustle and a faint pointy press startled him from his analysis. Folly, who'd hid behind him like a suit of armor, had stepped inside the room with a hint of determination — Tom could only watch with a sliver of surprise as the boy approached the apprentice.

That drew her attention to them, those same closed off greys scanning over the teen with none of the mocking he'd received. She adjusted the blanket of the first year she'd been aiding, and came into full view after skirting the bed.

'Good afternoon, Mr. Folly, Professor Riddle.' There was an echo of a polite _"Miss Fortier"_ as shedrew a reddish wood wand towards a cabinet, a mortar and a couple of jars busting out to hover around. 'Will you sit here, please?'

'Th-thank you,' he stuttered — quite ridiculously, Tom would say — and his pink complexion turned shades of red he'd only seen arise out of Bertie Bott's Beans.

There was a single wave of dismissal; the boy sunk against the headboard in bliss. 'Was it Wood again?' she asked conversationally, the ground asphodel root spilling amid the air into a concoction, 'The counter-curse is quite easy, you know.'

Riddle, who'd been observing with mild interest the process of whatever unfamiliar mixture she was inventing, felt a sting of sourness rise up his throat. Was she doubting his teaching abilities?

Smile kept polite, he did not resist clearing his throat. 'My students are perfectly well taught, I assure you.'

She'd replied so quickly their words almost overlapped. 'I meant no offense.'

Sincerity, a taste of strawberry cake against a caffeinated mouth. He found such sweet things did not go well with him, particularly the way her eyes hadn't moved from the ridiculous boy, how she seemed in no hurry of favoring him.

'Of course.' It hadn't occurred to him his useless student's inadequate performance could be reflected on him. He bit back a scowl — not that she would fucking looking at him.

A breath of silence hung around the infirmary, no patient sufficiently injured to amount for visitors, her scan performed non-verbally. It was not the comfortable kind; Lucas seemed seconds from bursting, and even the mildest implication of Tom's lack of abilities left a poisonous taste. Somewhere between his lungs there was an uncomfortable tug and it nearly drove him to dash out the room.

'Did you need something, Professor?' It came like a single petal against a river, its ripples so soft he barely caught himself in time. And then, as an afterthought, 'You've been looking a bit pale recently.'

_Yes, the fucking kids are driving me insane._

His face morphed back into politeness as if it rested like such. 'Just came to deliver the injured. And thank you, but I'm perfectly fine.'

He did not want to appeal to her, but he'd been born with a charming enough visage, and it'd take a lot more than a nosy nurse to break his habit — it was a good thing he hadn't, for she finally spared him a second, a brief, concerned glance. Her hand worked autonomously from her, wand twirling towards Folly's head as the antlers shrunk, leaving behind tiny grey bumps that rather looked like he was growing horns.

The bend of her eyebrows appearing below curled blonde bangs was unmissable. 'Are you sure, Professor? I could arrange something for you to take with your tea.'

 _Tea_?

He had meant to reply, but she'd already glued her attention to the child again. Lucas squirmed slightly under her gaze, and his expression at the brush of her fingers when passing the potion was enough to have him near hurling. 'Now, Mr. Folly, you're going to need a couple of hours of rest for the potion to take effect. Whoever performed the jinx was quite unskilled, they ended up making it worse for solving.'

Despite everything, Tom fought the urge to burst out laughing. He'd taken with great shame the judgement of his colleagues at that state, but it would certainly come to nothing when compared to being called incompetent by his unfounded puppy love. Satisfaction was quite the confusing taste to be mixed with bile.

Miss Fortier stepped back and closed the curtains around him for privacy, and by the time she made her way to Riddle, a vial had fallen into her hand. Dark purple and quite thick, sloshing as she wordlessly extended it towards him.

The midday sunshine had hidden between the vast grays of the clouds, the room grown a muted, faded tone. Her skin took to almost white in the absence of the yellow glow.

'I do not need it.' It came across more apologetic then firm.

Tom would've taken practically anything else out of courtesy. Not long before, as the days of hosting the Slytherin colors had barely passed, he often took chocolates and hand-knit scarves from his many suitors (attempting to snog his handsome face underneath the mistletoe), and though he never once reciprocated, the act of accepting appeased them enough. 

But in this particular case, he saw nothing of lust or desire. He felt very much like she was undermining him, either by assuming he was not capable of buying or brewing something in case he ever needed a pick-me-up, or that he was weak enough to falter under the task of teaching. Whatever way it went, his fingers did not reach for hers.

Her voice dropped to a whisper, mistakenly interpreting shame by the near presence of his students. He wasn't sure a person like her could find many more nerves to strike. 'A drop every two days. It's not as good as sleep, but is substantially superior to a pepper-up. I made it myself, perfect for coinciding patrols and grading.'

'Miss Fortier, if you don't mind me asking, if you claim your potion to be superior to an internationally distributed and acclaimed one, why are you not openly sharing it?'

Perhaps, and unknowingly, it'd been his turn to strike a nerve. Her poster smile faltered, and though a frown did not take its place, the light seemed to have been swept off her face. 'Not everyone is worth receiving them.'

With _that_ , he agreed.

He was increasingly aware of how simply off something about her was. It was easy to ignore just how suspicious her entire existence was when he'd only catch glimpses from afar, certainly not when his entire senses were filled with traces of her.

Riddle took the vial in his hand. He hadn't taken anything brewed by a stranger for a couple of years, and he surely did not trust the excessive smile with which she regarded him when he shoved the object into his dark robes. However, he could dissect whatever poison she attempted to feed him with with barely a nod to Slughorn.

If it meant answers, it was worth withstanding a smile of his own when all he wanted was to delve into her mind and personally rip it apart.

He let his gaze linger into her eyes again, still the same firm occluding wall he'd been met with the couple of times he'd tried. And perhaps, and so rarely so, she felt the unsolicited mental nudge — though he was very careful not to, because she patted down her gymslip and bid him a good day, returning to some student she'd most definitely already attended to.

He felt the weight of her concoction in his pocket as he made his way back, pressing against his thighs in a strangely reassuring manner.


	2. chapter two

To her, the Great Hall was always the homeliest in the mornings. Its walls vibrated with the clatter of cutlery and the student’s loud voices; the owls flew by with letters and sweets and gifts. She held it dear to her heart, memories of her own school days when waking up surrounded by friends made the harsh pull of the early hours that less demanding – she saw it mirror in them.

The scenery felt routinely, warm even within the chilly November days, long wool scarves laid by their laps for the inevitable bite of the outside.

That particular morning, the high table was drifting off, consumed by the drawling of Professor Kettleburn’s voice as she monologued whichever subject her randomizer had laid on that day. Holly poked around her food, an attempt to bite back what she’d been dwelling upon, but still considering it with enough strength to mildly drown the explanation onthe value of Nifflers.

Finally, and possibly because her thoughts were no longer enough to smother the increasing volume of the dissertation, she properly laid her attention on the man beside her.

Amusement swirled in her tongue, yet it tasted bitter as she spoke.

'It won't bite, Professor.'

Holly wasn't a very confrontational person, but exception was due when the subject possibly sought to invalidate her magical prowess. She'd taken pity in the man and the ashiness of his skin, a week or so prior, yet not only had he blatantly refrained from drinking it (Riddle did look a bit weakened to a healer's eye), but she'd also spotted remnants of the concoction within one of Slughorn's copper cauldrons.

Dark browns glazed over her before responding, a hint of confusion brewing in thick traces across his face. 'Pardon?'

She shifted her weight over the table, breakfast platter left untouched just by her elbow. Staff sat by seniority, the freshly graduated pair far down, yet it was a rare occasion for their exchanges to go beyond basic courtesy; such was sure to evoke some unsolicited attention. Holly could practically render the image of Professor Beery’s ears shooting up in alert.

'A vial, purple…' She trailed off, studying him. He did seem genuinely confused, had he perhaps forgotten it somewhere and in turn gotten analyzed by the Potion’s Master?

For all the praise she’d heard, Riddle did not seem the type for clumsiness.

His brows fell into place, back straightened. ‘Oh, yes – that - I figured my older colleagues would need it more than me.’

If that had been the case, there was not much she could do, though Slughorn’s distrust itched at the tip of her tongue and he’s perfectly capable of brewing something alike threatened to spill. It didn’t matter – she couldn’t forcibly heal him, as much as it bothered her.

‘That’s…thoughtful of you.’ A smile, but a hint of resignation in the drawl of her words. ‘Still, if you ever reconsider, I have a decent supply.’

He smiled back, polite and handsome. ‘I’ll keep that in mind, Miss Fortier.’

‘Holly, please – most already do.’

Riddle didn’t extend the invitation, but his head tipped in a mid-nod and he repeated her name between quirked up lips.

She felt her stomach flutter. It’d been a long while since she’d gotten the undivided attention of a man, and it’d been – well, it was actually the first time that she’d talked in such proximity with an extremely good-looking man.

She’d heard about him, of course. First the praise of his colleagues, advocating for a future companionship between the two young ins, and then whispers in the corridor and giggles trailing after the man. Even within her office, when supplying a chocolate or two to saddened girls, she’d often be the keeper of school-crush confessions.

Then, with his eyes lingering over hers and the soft rasp of her name against his lips, she understood. She did.

There was just that matter where he’d attempted to slither inside her thoughts with Legillimency. 

* * * *

Holly was often tucked away in the Hospital Wing for entire days on end. Her apprenticeship soon turned into a self-taught challenge, and if it hadn’t been for the million other reasons she needed Hogwarts for, Madam Thindrel would’ve been denounced to the Headmaster within the first week.

The matron quickly decided that after a first superficial tour, the new little French healer was sufficiently prepared for service. No mind the spells and potions that should’ve been part of her curriculum, or assistance in familiarization with the staff and students – she was thrown into action without as much as mild instructions.

So, she got to work.

Tackling the weak hexes and jinxes with which the students struck each other amounted to nearly no magical prowess, and the counter curses and basic healing spells needed had been ingrained into her brain within the first few years in Beauxbatons. The girls were particularly very friendly, and Holly had been saddened to realize that none felt safe enough to mention their problems and questions with the existing matron or their Professors.

Most of the Hogwarts staff had far overgrown their positions, bordering the stereotype of a cranky old scholar and none of what a professor should amount too. Holly suspected it was Dippet’s fault.

The occasional proper broken bones were, though she ought not to show it, extremely thrilling. She had an excuse to use more elaborate diagnosis spells, to pull out her extensive potions cabinet and do a bit more intricate wand work. In the off chance that the mediwitch actually did her job and watched over Holly’s work, she’d say that she healed the children too soon.

That particular day was already off to being extraordinarily different. She’d confronted (or at least what she deigned as such) Riddle at breakfast, had been met with a less cranky Madam Thindrel who had not complained when Holly didn’t require Leslie Brown to lay motionless for his minor injury, and had the first of older Slytherins schedule a personal appointment with her.

Crazy day, really.

The calendar stuck to her tiny office’s wall, curled at the edges as the sticking charm wore off, read November 22nd. The walls were grey with the pearl white of snow seeping through the window. A sixth year sat rigidly in front of her desk, haughtily inspecting her meticulous nails.

Holly waited patiently for the girl to speak, pouring down two cups of tea in her periwinkle blue set. She did not.

‘Is everything alright, Miss Greengrass?’

The blond jolted slightly, dropped her hand. Blue eyes were wide with something as she focused on the matron, and she dramatically flicked her hair down her back in what Holly saw as a nervous habit.

She sucked in a shaky breath before speaking. ‘Yes, well, I heard from a friend that you…’ Anne shifted, re-straightening her back as if it’d ever slumped. ‘She said you helped. That you gave advice and…promise confidentiality.’

Holly smiled at her and nodded, extending the gold-lined cup towards the girl. ‘Drink, please. Perhaps you’ll feel a bit more relaxed.’

‘I’m not nervous.’ She snorted, traces of disdain tainting her pointed features, but reached for sugar either way.

Again, silence if not for the occasional sip. Anne’s otherwise pale face seemed to have gained a bit of color, and after what was probably a ferocious internal debate, blues rose pleadingly to her.

‘You swear that you won’t speak to my parents, or anyone else?’

‘I have no interest in doing so.’

‘You won’t make little of me?’

‘I’ve been your age recently enough. Of course not.’

Holly expected more silence, but the young girl set down the teacup with determined force and exclaimed, near outburst: ‘I like someone!’

‘He likes me back…’ her voice had quieted into near whisper, ‘and he wants to kiss me. Mother always said I should guard myself…’

An interesting day indeed. The girl across her was certainly not the first enquiring about the woes of youth and seductive teenage boys, but the first of an ancient pureblood household to do so nonetheless. It made it all more important that she not scare her away.

Her lips quirked down in memory, of a time that felt distant and centennial within her mind, that she frequently shut away in the organized compartments of her Occlumency. And it nearly seeped through, she nearly made it about herself and another cautious mother, but she shoved it back behind its locked shelf and picked herself up.

‘Nowadays,’ she began, treading carefully, ‘especially after the war, everyone’s a bit more open. People have always kissed in secret, all throughout history. However, there’s a thread of truth to what your mother says. Boys are often quite mean, I’m sure you’ve seen-‘

‘But he’s not! He’s kind and charming and he’d never do that to me!’

‘Of course. I didn’t mean to say he wasn’t. If you love him, if you feel safe, a kiss - well, a kiss is magical. And nothing bad will happen to you from a kiss, even if some tales would attempt to tell you otherwise.’

Anne blushed down to her roots. ‘I won’t get pregnant, then?’

Holly was calm, soothing. She’d partaked in more conversations of these in the few months as a healer at Hogwarts than she had ever imagined would be necessary for the span of her whole life.

‘You won’t, dear. And if you ever have questions on that regard, my office is always open for you.’

Pink to red to pale again, like the heating of a potion as it travelled the rainbow to set into its correct shade. Greengrass shot up, her curls bouncing on her shoulders. ‘Thank you, Miss Fortier!’ And dashed through the door still withstanding the regal air that so effortlessly surrounded her.

She watched her leave with a smile, but the image of an innocent blond girl in school robes and off to snogging her first love rang within some other box of her mind, and it dissolved. Had that been her, before?

* * * *

Tom’s day had so far been – and it was thankfully nearing its end - extraordinarily annoying. From the little apprentice disturbing his breakfast with the subject of her awfully complex potion, to his students’ submitting the sloppiest essays that desecrated wizard intelligence in itself, to Dumbledore’s insistence they had tea once a week.

That last one really had him tip-toeing the line of sanity every single time.

Albus Dumbledore, labelled greatest of his time and the sole defeater of none other than Grindelwad himself, content with the title of Professor. Tom knew they’d offered him as much as Minister.

In a way, his unnerving sympathy and firm eyes reminded him of Fortier, but this one had the particularity of greatly enjoying making him uncomfortable. Tea and lemon biscuits in his office, both of which he could not refuse with risk of breaking role, and a fatidious conversation on the matter of teaching. And Tom’s plans for the future. He always lingered on that.

He knew the Transfiguration professor was intent on controlling him. He took it upon himself to supervise his syllabus, offer advice that much sounded like commands if it were not for the softness with which he delivered them. Tom had to smile, nod, pretend interest and engagement and Occlude as flawlessly as he could.

It left him exhausted. But never as much as it had that day.

The bloody bastard had chosen a Friday night for their rendezvous, and it stretched through the night with the promise of the weekend’s rest. Riddle didn’t rest on the weekends, though, but Dumbledore wouldn’t know that.

He didn’t rest, actually. Ever.

And so, that particular visit he long overstayed what he could sustain, and he had half a mind to consider taking a sip of whatever concoction the mediwitch had brewed.

No, he would not take someone else’s potion. He’d brew something himself.

Tom spun on his heel halfway across his quarters and moved towards the dungeons. Slughorn wouldn’t mind, surely. He might even be delighted that his old pupil had an urge to dab into potions again. He immediately accepted when Tom requested the use of his lab only a couple days before, too.

It would raise no problems.

Just a quick something to feed him through a couple more hours of research.

He’d just go in, charm the Potions Master later.

But the lab wasn’t free, and he’d known it before even entering because the musky scent sank through the very wood of the door. His curiosity piqued when he realized it was smothered through a containment charm.

It was far too late for it to be Slughorn.

The door didn’t budge with the first twist of the handle. He brought his wand to it instead, muttered incantations under his breath.

Didn’t move as much as an inch the second time either. Couldn’t be troubling students with strong enough wards to require proper dismantling. Riddle paused in thought, stepped away from the classroom’s entrance.

As suspicious as working at two in the morning was, he had no justification to break through that door. He could even be breaking in old Slughorn himself; he could be mistaken.

His brain was running on low steam as it was.

Maybe he’d come back another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for the kudos! unfortunately, my computer broke yesterday, and until it’s fixed I can no longer write. my dramione story that I had begun writing is probably gone too.


End file.
